I type in the Google bar a separate search on Marek and Jasmine Talbert.
Boom.
A string of links pops up related to their relationship. I click on a few images and am utterly blown away by how beautiful they were together as a couple.
She’s elegant and sophisticated, with long, dark, shiny hair and golden eyes that hint at maybe some Creole ancestry. She was born and raised in New Orleans, where they apparently met while both attending college at Tulane. They married a few years after he was drafted.
And then…what’s this?
Seven years later they divorced. Irreconcilable differences.
I piece together the timeline of their relationship. That must have put him around twenty-seven when he got married. Divorced when he was thirty-six, two years ago now. About as long as he’s been in Seattle.
I continue flipping through the pages, wondering if there’s any speculation as to the reason for their divorce. Maybe the move and the new job were too much on the couple to withstand. I’m sure Marek put his heart and soul into the team, which can only mean his wife may have felt neglected.
Who knows the truth behind any marriage? But I keep searching until I finally narrow it down just to Jasmine’s background. She returned to New Orleans after the divorce, having sold the house they owned in West Seattle and, from the looks of it, keeping the money from the sale. She became, for all intents and purposes, a socialite and jetsetter, traveling the world in a carefree fashion, based on the exotic pics from her Instagram account.
Now it appears she’s settled in L.A. from the most recent pics and status updates.
Part of me cringes as I read through these details, feeling a bit like a voyeur invading their privacy. Sadly, it doesn’t stop me, though. I’m a dog on a bone and intrigued by the titillating facts, hoping to learn what happened between them. Seven years isn’t anything to sneeze at. So what was it that broke them up? I dig for more. Is there dirt to be found? Was there a scandal? Affair? Cheating?
It’s disgusting how fast my mind goes to that sensationalism. And wrong of me. The circumstances surrounding their marriage and divorce should be kept private. It’s no one else’s business.
On the other hand, Marek’s a public figure and operational head of a large basketball franchise. If something immoral or unethical happened that led to their divorce… well then, that could affect his integrity as a leader. And that right there, folks, is a lead.
My theories and internet trolling are soon interrupted when I get a text from Hannah.
Han: Hey sis. You around?
Instead of texting her back, I dial up her number.
She answers on the first ring, her voice weak and out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey, Han. What’s up?” I inquire, using the abbreviated nickname I’ve called her since we were kids. I don’t ask how she’s doing. I stopped asking that question six months ago. I know exactly how she’s doing—not well. She has her good days, but the others are simply horrible with the chemo drugs wreaking havoc on her frail body.
Her breathing is labored, and her words stilted, which means it’s a bad day.
“I…um…the tests from last week? They just called with the results.” She pauses to catch her breath and my hand clenches into a tight fist. “The tumor hasn’t shrunk. I need that surgery, Harp. They want to do it next week.”
Oh, fuck.
I’m going to need more wine for this, and that interview has to happen this week. I don’t have time to wait anymore.